


After the Fact

by sopapilla_sasparilla



Category: The Cask of Amontillado - Edgar Allan Poe
Genre: 4toop, Betrayal, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Infidelity, Insanity, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Canon, Repressed Memories, Written for a Class
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 10:54:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8976799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sopapilla_sasparilla/pseuds/sopapilla_sasparilla
Summary: Lady Fortunato is left all alone after her husband's pride gets him caught six feet underground with Montresor.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to write like the Poe Hoe but it's a very challenging style to imitate. I wrote this the night before it was due and suffered every second of it, but at least the memes kept me strong lmao
> 
> told from Fortunato's wife's point of view.

The worst of Fortunato’s disputes ended in nights where he did not return back home to his manor. The man had a cursed habit of running his mouth until slapped to a stop, spewing out criticism, jokes at another’s expense, and biting remarks on every little passing action until begged to cease. A blessing, and a shockingly unexpected one at that, it truly was when he had married, and so came about a Lady Fortunato that was seemingly more pleasant to be within a three meter radius of than her accompanying husband.

She was thin, dark in complexion, and with thick skin that often did not give way to her husband’s endless taunts when aimed towards her. Her hair, long curtains of silken brown, teasingly fell over her face when she looked down at her feet to avoid reddening when Fortunato embarrassed her simply by being in her company and crying out such haphazard words that always seemed to arrange themselves with just enough sense for those on the receiving end to, at least, realize they were being mocked.

“Such a pity a beautiful woman like her ended up with a man as insufferable as Fortunato,” came the whispering any time she was out on the streets and recognized as Lady Fortunato, the stinging of the words following behind her and attaching to her footsteps and echoing with every staccato clack on the ground even long after she got away from the commoners that talked too much.

Never had Lady Fortunato seen her husband so inconceivably rude as with poor Montresor. Time after time again, encounters at the markets, festivals, and sometimes simply strolling past the Montressor manor, lead to Lady Fortunato ducking her head down and letting her hair curtain over her increasingly burning cheeks as Fortunato stood, hands on hips, repeating critiques on every little thing he had witnessed Montresor do in the past two weeks.

“Come now, Montresor!” Fortunato would always begin. “You were not at the market last night? Running low on money, were you?” 

And with what Fortunato believed to be a playful punch, he would hit Montresor’s arm.

Lady Fortunato, when her head was up during these confrontations, which was getting increasingly more rare, would see it as an act of violence and choke on a gasp of surprise.

Montresor, whose arm had long since become purple with a bruise from Fortunato’s joking hits, would see it as, each and every time, Fortunato getting far too comfortable with the imagined comradery between them.

Luchesi had come a close second to those on the never-ending list of people who Fortunato teased without provocation. Lady Fortunato gave no pity to Luchesi in the way she felt it for Montresor, however. To an extent at some days, she felt as though Luchesi deserved each and every little hit, punch, kick, scratch, dent, and bite Fortunato steadily carved into him.

Perhaps there was nothing more than his dangerous love for alcohol that could top Fortunato’s terribly obvious list of death wishes. Lady Fortunato herself drank, if only to please her husband, but was not overly fond of the practice of drinking. A connoisseur Fortunato considered himself to be on the topic of fine wines—a con- _ no, sir  _ Lady Fortunato was, and it truly indeed seemed to be regarded upon as a tragic shame by her husband.

When the Sun had since been set over three hours and the Moon now well high in the night sky, unpunctured by a single star, and there was still no sign of Fortunato coming home from the carnival, Lady Fortunato was certain not to worry. The man had many things that kept him out-of-doors during the nighttime and many more that prevented him from stumbling home at a decent hour in the morning.

“Will you be up to wait for him, my Lady?” asked one of the many servants around the manor. Lady Fortunato turned only her head to address him, her hands firmly clasped behind her back, her legs aching, her eyes tired and pulled down by heavy bags underneath them.

“No,” replied the Lady after long moments of silent contemplation. “Do not wake me when he returns. But do prepare breakfast for two in the morning.”

She turned on her heel with a great flair of her draping housecoat to leave the main hall and retire to the seclusion of the master bedroom, where she slept soundly without a single dream, nor another thought of Fortunato’s whereabouts.

The morning was silent, the thick air only broken by the sound of plates clattering and servants chattering. Breakfast had been made for two, but only one mouth present to eat it. Lady Fortunato, still tired and weary from having drunk a few draughts of Medoc earlier in the night, ordered the servants to discard the uneaten and cold food with a wordless wave of the hand.

“Will you be out to-day?” asked one of the servants.

Lady Fortunato, not entirely refreshed from her rest, frowned. “No.”

She turned on her heel to exit the dining hall and make her way back to the bedroom, where she napped extensively until the Sun had gone down again, without a single dream or a flutter of her eyes.

“He still has yet to return?” Lady Fortunato asked, addressing the servant standing dutifully outside the bedroom chambers.

“Yes, my Lady.”

“Oh. Do not wake me when he returns, but set breakfast out for two in the morning.”

“Yes, my Lady.”

She slowly closed the chamber door, then, deciding there was nothing much else to do as it was already nighttime again, returned to her bed.

Again, breakfast in the dining hall with the soft glow of the early morning light streaming through the windows was silent and made Lady Fortunato feel sleepy again from so little interesting happenings. She dropped an ear in on a few of the servants’ discussions briefly, resting her head in her hands on the regally-clothed table adorned by the Fortunato coat of arms.

“I suspect infidelity,” whispered one bustling mouth to one attentive ear.

“As do I,” replied another servant.

“And yet she still insists on preparing and wasting food for him?” sighed a third servant.

“It is a terribly unfortunate use of food,” agreed a servant from the kitchen, passing the huddle of workers.

Lady Fortunato’s eyes flew open and slammed her hands down on the table, lifting herself up grandiosely so as to make a commotion amongst the gossiping servants as they hurried to straighten themselves up.

“Enough,” she ordered, and at once the last few dwindling words of dying conversations ceased. Her eyes, glaring daggers at the servants, swept over them all before she regained her composure. Brusquely, she strode out of the dining hall, the looming ache of the attendants’ words following behind her, latching onto the shrinking shadow she cast on the tile floor in the morning light and haunting her increasingly shallow breathing even long after she had made it to the security and seclusion of her bedroom, away from the servants that talked too much.

In her room, with the shut door and the shut windows, she felt as though she were suffocating. Fortunato had had a terrible cough the last time she saw him—he stubbornly refused to try to medicate it, insisting that all he needed was a little more rest and a little more wine. He had also taken a silly jester cap with a ringing bell atop it to the carnival days ago, insisting that it would be a good joke to laugh at with his friends. Of course, insisting that he  _ had  _ friends. Every little detail that she had recently even thought of noting in her mind about him all seemed to come back and seize her breath, redden her cheeks, and pour sweat down her face.

Where was he? Was he having an affair? Had he met someone at the carnival? It was anyone’s most obvious first remark that the two had not been a perfect pair; Lady Fortunato was much more reserved and quiet than the brazen, outspoken Mister Fortunato. Perhaps the man had finally realized that himself, too, and set out to find one with a mouth as loud as their mind to match his.

A pinching headache, screaming sharp and high-pitched in her ears, made Lady Fortunato wince. When she managed to flutter her eyes open again against the pain, she found herself outside, still with her housecoat over her, her feet leading her to a predetermined destination she couldn’t recognize.

“M-Montresor!” cried someone, and Lady Fortunato whipped around to see who had called that name. Montresor, standing in the yard of his manor, smiled patiently at her.

“Yes?” he said respectfully.

She continued to turn about, trying to find to whom Montresor might be having such a calm and quotidian conversation with. They were completely alone except for the Sun, which still had not totally lifted off the horizon yet, that glared into Lady Fortunato’s eyes, worsening her headache and turning Montresor into nothing but a shadowy, statured silhouette.

“M-Montresor…” she said out loud, slowly, to make sure that the one who was speaking this time was her.

“Good morning, Lady Fortunato.”

“A good morning to you, too,” she barely managed out through her numb mouth. “H-have you seen Fortunato at all, recently? I heard you encountered him at the carnival.”

Montresor smiled fondly. “Ah, yes, the carnival. I did meet him there, but only in passing. He had no time to stay and chat; he seemed to be distracted by someone on the other side of the fairgrounds.”

Lady Fortunato gritted her teeth and bared them in what she hoped to be assumed as a smile by her company.

“Oh, is that  _ so? _ ” spat the fire that grew inside of her chest, clawing its way up her throat and burning behind her seemingly passive amber eyes.

“Lady Fortunato, you do seem so fervently stressed,” noted Montresor. “What ever is the matter? Did you have a sound sleep last night?”

“Quite so,” complied Lady Fortunato bitterly. “I had not even a dream.”

“Then what caused the sudden stir about your husband?” inquired Montresor, tilting his head to the side attentively.

“He has not returned since the night of the fair,” came a stilted reply. Stilted was the best Lady Fortunato could manage with such a hot lump in her throat, a steady thrum in her head, and an irregular beat in her heart.

“Is that  _ so _ ?” Montresor scoffed fondly. “He is that way. A man of much mystery, perhaps sometimes to the extent of which it annoys others. But we deal with it anyway, don’t we, for we know it is just how our good friend Fortunato is.” His shallow green eyes swept over her. “Say, do you wish to come down to the catacombs with me? I feel a drink would do you good. I recently purchased barrel of Amontillado.”

The woman pursed her lips. “I don’t drink,” she said firmly.

“Nonsense, nonsense. With a husband such as Fortunato I find it impossible that you do not appreciate the finesse of alcohol,” said Montresor. “As I assume your knowledge on drinks must be incomplete, I must ask, do you know the value of Amontillado?”

“Well, I don’t believe I could name it if asked,” admitted Lady Fortunato stiffly. She was not here to play games with the man her husband ridiculed as a daily exercise of the mind.

“Oh, it is  _ adored  _ by all!” cried Montresor, as though this were an unbelievable miseducation. “Luchesi is a master of fine wine, even more so than I am as I must admit. I could call him down here and we could all visit the catacombs together to taste some of it.”

Luchesi. The name nearly made Lady Fortunato gag, and once again brought back sharp pierces to her skull and quickly chased away her breath.

“No no no— _ no _ , I do believe it is quite alright,” Lady Fortunato hastened to interject. “I am so inclined to believe that I will survive without knowing the cost or taste of Amontillado.”

“Oh, on the contrary!” laughed Montresor. “Please, it would be a pleasure to have company down in the catacombs this afternoon. Life is filled with many more surprises than we could ever hope to foresee, my Lady. A fool would say that a man only needs to know what he’s certain to study.”

_ A fool? _

“It’s all well,” repeated Lady Fortunato, her lips pressing into a tight, thin line, as thin as her patience was starting to become. “And there will be no such need to summon Luchesi. You own the Amontillado, no? Does that not mean you are, at least in the market, a superior to that wretched man?”

Montresor only exhaled half a laugh. “That old Fortunato has really begun to wear off on you, hasn’t he?”

_ She is not like him. _

“All but his love of wine has, it seems,” agreed the Lady through a cracked smile.

“Well, though. It seems he had gotten his fortune off of trades in the market, no? What will you do if he never comes back?” reasoned Montresor.

_ He will. _

“It’s best to learn how to do this yourself, Lady Fortunato, so that you may continue on his legacy. Come, and I will educate you on the values and flavours of all I have stored in my catacombs and, note you, it is quite many. You would not wish to be an ignoramus on such a well-respected subject, would you?”

_ Ignoramus? _

Montresor’s mouth continued to move, bumbling on without a single hint of remorse in what he had said to the Lady at all since their mornings had mixed, but she could not hear a single thing he said from that point. The beating of her heart got too infrequent and the pounding in her head too incessant; her palms got too sweaty and her legs too weak;  her smiles too fake, and her words too stilted. The burning in her throat, chest, and behind her eyes too hot.

Oh, she vowed to get revenge one day on the man, just as Fortunato had every single day of his life since he met Montresor. One day she would get back at him for far too many insults, too little trust, too much belittling. But how, exactly? Her head was swimming in broiling, scorching, scathing lava and she couldn’t focus. Lady Fortunato turned swiftly on her heel to go back to her manor (and yes, she felt it rather suitable to call it  _ hers  _ now if Fortunato was apparently off with another mistress never to return), hastening to go back to the seclusion, security, and comfort of  _ her  _ bedroom. The impact of Montresor’s words bored holes through her skin and mind to match every pore and nerve of her body as she strode, even long after she got away from that man who talked too much. 


End file.
